Chapter Text
Leaving Rivendell was… surreal.
Imladris—beauty and quiet safety—faded behind them as they slipped away under cover of night. No fanfare. No lingering.
Bilbo slowed, just for a moment, and glanced back.
It was beautiful.
And perhaps, someday, he might return. The library alone had been… staggering.
But he had made his decision.
And he did not regret it.
Some of the Company were coming around to him, in their own ways. That thought settled warmly in his chest, and he smiled faintly—
—just in time for Thorin’s voice to cut clean through it.
Sharp. Unnecessary.
Bilbo sighed, the sound small, and fell back into step behind the Company.
A hand clapped briefly against his shoulder as Bofur passed him, solid and reassuring.
Ahead, Dwalin’s shoulders tightened. He didn’t turn, but the glare he sent Thorin’s back was felt all the same.
Bilbo huffed softly and kept walking.
He didn’t stay alone for long.
The princes fell into step on either side of him, easy as breath, closing in until he was gently but firmly caught between them.
“Thought you might get lost back there,” Kíli said, grinning.
Bilbo snorted. “Hardly.”
Fíli leaned slightly into his space, conspiratorial. “We’ll keep an eye on you anyway.”
Bilbo rolled his eyes—but the smile that followed was real.
Behind them, Dwalin saw it.
He said nothing.
But his gaze lingered just a moment longer than necessary before he turned forward again, expression settling into something quieter.
Satisfied.
—
By late afternoon, they made camp at the foot of the Misty Mountains.
It was decided quickly—hunt now, stock what they could before the crossing.
Packs hit the ground.
And before Bilbo had properly straightened, he was being dragged off again.
“Come on!” Kíli insisted, already pulling at his sleeve. “You’ve a bow now. Time to use it.”
“Practice,” Fíli added, far too pleased with himself.
Somewhere behind them—
“If you break him, I’ll break you.”
Dwalin’s voice carried easily.
Neither prince slowed.
Bilbo, caught between them once more, didn’t protest.
—
And far into the forest—Bilbo, and the terrible two.
The princes were laughing.
“Will you two be quiet,” Bilbo snapped, turning on them with an affectionate glare.
“Oh, you wound me, Mr. Baggins,” Fíli said, clutching his chest.
Kíli staggered beside him, nearly collapsing to the ground as if struck. “Cruel. Heartless.”
Bilbo rolled his eyes, though the amusement was poorly hidden.
He drew in a slow breath and let it out again, steadying himself.
Then he looked down.
The forest floor told its own story, if one knew how to read it.
Broken bramble. Disturbed earth. The faint press of hooves in softer soil.
Bilbo crouched, fingers brushing lightly over the ground, careful not to disturb more than necessary.
Behind him, the princes quieted.
“…What are you doing?” Kíli asked, softer now.
Bilbo lifted a hand without looking back.
Silence.
A moment passed.
Then—
“There.”
He rose slowly, already nocking an arrow. The movement was not perfect—but it was practiced enough to matter.
Fíli and Kíli exchanged a look.
They did not interrupt.
Bilbo stepped forward, light on his feet, placing each step with quiet care. The trees thinned just enough ahead to reveal movement—a flicker of brown between shadow and light.
He stilled.
Drew.
Breathed.
And released.
The arrow flew clean.
A startled cry broke through the quiet, then the heavy thud of something collapsing into brush.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then—
“—You didn’t let us help!” Kíli said, scandalized.
Fíli barked a laugh. “One shot.”
Bilbo straightened, blinking at them. “Well, I wasn’t about to wait for you two to stop talking.”
“Rude,” Kíli muttered, though he was already grinning.
—
They made quick work of it after that.
Or rather—Fíli and Kíli did.
Bilbo hovered, useful where he could be, but mostly watching as the princes worked with practiced efficiency.
The elk was secured to a makeshift sled of bark and twine, dragged between them with far less effort than it should have taken.
Bilbo, meanwhile, had already wandered a few steps off.
“Bilbo,” Fíli called. “Where are you—”
“Just a moment!”
He crouched again, this time not for tracks but for leaves.
Wild rosemary. Parsley. Chives tucked stubbornly between stones. Garlic, sharp-scented and promising.
Bilbo’s face lit up.
He gathered carefully, selecting what would keep, what could be dried, what would serve them later.
“What is he doing now?” Kíli asked.
“Foraging,” Fíli said.
“…For what?”
Fíli paused. Then shrugged. “Hobbit things.”
Bilbo returned a few minutes later, arms full, cheeks flushed, curls catching whatever the forest had chosen to give him.
“I thought,” he began, slightly breathless, “we could prepare some of it now—dry the rest. It should keep through the mountains if we’re careful.”
The princes stared at him.
Then at the herbs.
Then back at him.
“…You planned that already,” Kíli said.
Bilbo blinked. “Well—yes.”
Fíli grinned. “I like him.”
“You would,” Kíli said.
—
They stayed long enough to hunt, to gather, to prepare.
Long enough for the Company to settle into something almost… easy.
—
They brought their success back with them—laughter carrying ahead of their steps.
Dwalin looked up.
His gaze went immediately to Bilbo.
It always did.
Leaves in his curls. Mud at his cuffs. Flush in his cheeks.
Alive. Unharmed.
Thriving.
Dwalin’s mouth pulled into a brief line.
The hobbit would need a bath.
But for now—
He gave a single, slow nod.
Bilbo stilled when he saw it.
And something in him settled.
—
Work followed quickly—knives drawn, meat dressed, fires stoked.
Bilbo did not step away from it.
If anything, he worked harder.
The princes spoke over one another, retelling the hunt in louder and more embellished versions with each pass.
Bilbo, red from ear to collar, had long since given up correcting them.